


Turning the Tables (I Spin You Right Round, Baby)

by infinidensity (ekaterin)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (not in that order), And feels, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Mild Kink, Multi, Post-Season/Series 01, Threesome - F/M/M, and SMUT
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-01 14:25:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6523792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekaterin/pseuds/infinidensity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Already primed to an unbearable pitch by a week of scheming, surprisingly awesome exhibitionism, and anticipation... we begin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First (Finally)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pathera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Teasing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3810028) by [pathera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera). 



They walked home in virtual silence--not that there was ever really silence in Matt’s mind: the sound of cars and cranes, human voices at every pitch, the distant sound of the river; they were all there, always--but for now Matt’s focus was almost wholly taken up by Karen and Foggy beside him, Foggy’s hand in his elbow (so familiar, but electrified now with new intent), Karen’s hair brushing against the sleeve of his jacket, their heartbeats fast but regular. He tried not to breathe too deeply, not to smell them, because his mind was already whirling with the idea of _them_ , them with _him_ , and his hands itched to touch them both everywhere, all at once, to drown in their scents and tastes and textures and heat _rightnowrightnowrightnow_ , and damn, Josie’s had never seemed so far from his place before.

But he had promised to make them beg, and he would: they were a gift beyond his deserving, and he would do his best to earn them even though he knew he never truly could. _They say the Devil is patient_ , he thought; tonight he would be a different kind of devil than the one the Murdock boys were known for, than the one he was known as in Hell’s Kitchen--cunning, not wrathful; tender, not violent--and he couldn’t help smirking a little as plans began to form themselves out of the welter of hunger in his mind. He could be very patient, and he could already imagine....

And they were at his door. _Finally._

He opened it on autopilot, hands artificially steady, slid his cane into the umbrella stand, hung up his jacket, and moved into the living room to drop his keys on the table. He could feel Foggy’s skin heating with anticipation, and he could hear the shirring brush of cloth against cloth as Karen slipped out of her coat, the uneven clicking of her heels as she followed him, Foggy a step behind. They hovered together at the end of the hall for a moment, and there was the whisper of hands sliding together and a brief but filthily wet kiss (just how much of what he had heard this past week had been for his benefit, and how much was just them?)--his back was to them; if he turned he thought he might not be able to keep himself in check, he wanted _so much_ \--

*

Foggy could feel his blood rushing in his ears, and his dick--still hard, getting harder with each thunderous heartbeat--was pressed uncomfortably into the seam of his slacks. Matt was standing where the ruins of his coffee table had been not so long ago, his back straight and head turned slightly to one side, half of him lost in shadow and half lit by the shifting patterns of the garish Xining Airlines sign outside the enormous window. Karen, within reach of him, bit her lip (he could taste the faint floral something of her lipgloss; he twitched in his pants, but wouldn’t hurry this for anything), stepped out of her heels, and touched Matt’s shoulder. Foggy was flushed with anticipation, curiosity, and a strange curl of pride: Karen, all courage and golden hair; Matty, a visual and literal mess of mouthwatering contradictions; and himself, the Franklin Nelson who could have been a butcher and was definitely a dork and might be truly disgustingly besotted, was here with them, really _with _them, and they were all crazy and he loved them more than he could stand to think about, so he came up behind Karen, moved her shoes under the couch so no one would trip on them, then rested his hands on her waist and waited.__

____

He had no idea what Matt was thinking--there was a stillness about him that said he was planning something, and it would either be very good or... well, very, _very_ good--but he wanted it all, everything Matt could think of, with them both, with an urgency he hadn’t expected; after all, he and Karen had been hoping for this for ages. And then Matt turned toward them, smiling his courteous and self-effacing courtroom smile but speaking in the devil’s low and commanding voice,

____

"Foggy, Karen: follow me, please," and he reached for Karen's arm in a perfect mirror of the way they led him in public, and guided them into his bedroom. Tonight was about Matt’s vision for them (and sweet revenge, though thankfully not the bloody kind that usually drove Matt to let loose the devil inside) and they were definitely, Foggy thought with equal parts resignation and desire--not to mention an unsubtle adjustment to crotch--going to beg before it was over. He would even bet a month of Karen’s coffee that they would love begging, too, which had never been his thing (Marci notwithstanding), because Matty had lied to him, but he had never broken a promise.

____

*

____

Karen--almost giggling with the champagne-fizz feeling of glee bubbling up in her chest--was just about to touch Matt, but suddenly he became somehow remote in the strange half-light of his barren apartment when he spoke, and her hand fell just in time for him to place it firmly in the crook of his arm. She had known for weeks that he was the devil (Daredevil, as the papers called him), the man who had saved her life the same day she met him, who could hear lies and smell fear; but she saw Matt every day as lawyer-Matt, earnest, passionate, goofy, even. He smiled like a kid and laughed like a muppet and made her feel like she was safely home even when everything was wrong. Never before now had the devil been so visible in the Matt she knew, and the familiar-foreign reversal of him leading her made her feel a little lightheaded--Matt’s arm was strong under her hand and his step was sure--and her mouth suddenly went completely dry, for once with anticipation rather than panic. _What had she gotten herself into?_

____

She had needed him in both his guises since that first interview, when he believed her against all odds and evidence, and that night, when he had dragged her would-be assassin to the steps of the _Guardian_ and left him there; she had wanted him since sometime in the first week because she was traumatized but not _dead_ , tho she had wanted Foggy’s sweetness and careful, adorably awkward attention more (and had assumed that Matt’s continual refusals to join them after work were a signal that he was not interested, or proof that he was involved with someone else; she knew better now); and she had _loved_ him since... well, she wasn’t sure, but she knew when he cried into her shoulder, when he showed her the same pain and fear and lostness in himself that wracked her in the days after Wesley, the same _vulnerability_ , that she loved him and would do anything to live up to her word and make sure he was not alone. She hadn’t been thinking of anything like this at the time, but now it seemed kind of inevitable that they would end up here, Matt seated at the foot of his bed, her standing before him, and Foggy reassuring at her back.

____

She raised her hand to the muss of Matt’s hair, and he sighed, turning into her palm; Foggy hooked his chin over her shoulder and his arm across her belly, watching, and Karen smiled the smile of the wickedly victorious. 

____


	2. Second (Clothes Unmake the Men)

Matt sat on the edge of the bed, trying desperately to remember how to control the adrenaline surging through him--making the sound of his own heartbeat almost drown out the sweet trip of Karen's pulse in his ears--without the pain and concentrated effort of violence; how to channel it into stillness, into mastery of the situation, of himself. The ghost-memory of Stick was rising on the swell of breathless anticipation, whispering in his ear with _that_ voice, dry like the shuffling of old papers: something crass and cutting about soldiers and softness and the evils of _thinking with the wrong_... when Karen's small, warm hand fell lightly on his head, fingers threading into his hair, the thin _citrusbrightandfloralsweet_ -smelling skin of her wrist sliding down from his forehead to hover just beneath his nose. He breathed her in openmouthed, and the unwelcome voice was abruptly gone from his mind; he turned his face into the touch, seeking, her slightly unsteady palm anchoring him to HERE and NOW: this was not about Stick's war, or even the Devil's, despite all the fighting. It was about winning, and Karen and Foggy were such brave souls, so good, so good _to him_. They were worth anything, everything.

Calm broke over him like a wave even as want bloomed in his belly, and he looked up--directly into the dark whorls of her eyes, dancing in her beautiful, fiery face; into the triumphant yet tremulous grin he knew graced her lips--and said with all the heat of his desire and all the force of his love in his voice,

"Foggy, if you would undress Karen for me, please? And Karen: _look at me_."

*

Foggy had felt more than seen the moment of uncertainty overtake Matty when he sat--too still in that way that had always looked like listening to him, he just hadn't known how very  _much_ there was to hear (lies, o my god, every embarrassing little lie, and every embarrassing truth, too, and this was exactly... okay, right, this was EXACTLY what he--they--had wanted, this was the PLAN. _Get it together, Nelson, for fuck's sake_ )--but the shift when Karen had reached out to him, touching whatever faraway place in his own head (in his own past, Foggy suspected; that dick Stick that Matty had told him so tellingly little about, maybe?) that he was falling into, as he had so often done over the years, was profound; again, he felt more that saw the wild smile that lit Karen's face, the one that meant she was about to do something new and courageous. The moment after, when Matty's eyes met hers as closely as they could, the naked kaleidoscope of green and gold and brown catching her wide blue gaze, and _held_... that was **_seismic_**. The muscles of her belly contracted beneath his arm and the breath went out of her all at once, leaving her (them) shocked and gasping. And when he spoke! Christ, his voice, heavy with promise, and his words; where the hell had that even come from?

Foggy had always thought of Matt as a bit... well, _shy_. Not with girls, not exactly--Catholicism notwithstanding (he was never gonna touch that with a pole of any length; all the no)--and not academically or professionally, either. But the way the courtroom confidence folded away as soon as they were alone together, leaving him open and trusting and dependent on Foggy, had formed his understanding of Matty's personality and of the dynamic between them. (This, he could see now, had been the true root of about half the massive _DOES NOT COMPUTE WTF_ shitfit he had thrown when Hottie McBurnerphone introduced him to his best friend, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, wet and still bleeding sluggishly on the floor. Even completely vulnerable--unconscious and badly injured--the evidence of deliberate strength and brutal violence on his body had rendered his best friend almost unrecognizable to Foggy: gorgeous puppy eyes hidden by black cloth, lush mouth with trademark adorkable grin crushed into the grim lines of the vigilante, all pain and purpose. It wasn't until he was clean, stitched, and laid on the couch with a blanket like an overtired kid that Foggy even began to be able to process it, and it had been awful.) But fuck if it didn't WORK here, somehow, the aura of unyielding power in Matty's posture, the timbre of finality in his voice as he politely--and how Matt was that, really? Jesus, Foggy was going to die of love if the lust didn't give him a stroke first--ordered him to strip his girlfriend for Matt's inspection.

Karen wobbled on her feet, making a noise he had never heard before, high and thin and kind of plaintive, and tentatively began to lift her arms toward the zipper of her shift dress. He heard her swallow hard against a throat gone dry, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she was going to out-stubborn her own uncertainty and get what she--and he--had wanted for so long because they had  _earned_ this happiness, damn it, this closeness  _belonged_ to them. Foggy surprised himself by breaking out of his stupor and pushing her arms away. Finally looking away from Matty's face to her profile, so close her freckles were clear as night stars, he whispered against her ear softly, coaxingly,

"No, sweetheart, let me. He asked--he _told_ \--he told _me_ , Karen, so just... move your hair out of the way for me, OK? Yeah, that's it, thanks. God, I love you." And somehow he was unzipping her--the sound of the metal teeth parting rolling loud as thunder into the charged space between the three of them--as though this were normal: his broad, capable hands as deft as ever, careful of her skin and the pretty underthings they had picked out together this morning, shit, FOREVER ago. He went slowly, reverently, one hand skimming down the widening slice of her the parting dress showed, then back up to push the rustling fabric off her shoulders and tug it past her slim hips to land in a crumpled heap at her feet. He kissed the top few vertebrae he had uncovered, his hands now slipping round to feel her frankly amazing ass and then up again to work the clasp of her bra--midnight blue stark against the glowing paleness of her skin and the brightness of her hair--and he felt himself dizzy with the entire sensory experience of her: the smell of her hair and slightly salty taste of her skin as he leaned in to kiss a line up to suck slightly at that spot behind her ear that made her shiver and moan low in her chest, the smooth warmth of her naked back resting fully flush with him (he was sure she could feel the heat and press of his aching erection and he couldn't help rocking into her a bit) and sinking into the almost-familiar almost-embrace with a tiny sigh, the soft slight weight of her pert tits against his palms as he rolled her nipples beneath the lace when it fell away to reveal her, the deceptive fragility of the bones of her neck and shoulder against one side of his face where he had unconsciously assumed the same pose in which they had begun. If she overwhelmed HIM this way, she must be a fucking revelation to Matty's keener senses. On that thought, he realized Karen's head had fallen back against him as he literally teased her out of her clothes and into a _state_ , and he gently gripped the increasingly messy mass of her hair to lift her face back up--two could play at this bossyboots thing--and keep her gaze level with Matty's, as ordered.

His own eyes turned to look for Matty's response; he was sitting very still, watching them avidly, lips a little parted, breath just audible and cheeks a bit flushed. Foggy felt something hot twist deep inside him at the sight of him so effected; he was visibly straining against his pants as he took them in, saw or sensed or whatever the two of them waiting patiently. He caught the pause after a moment, though, collecting himself, and said,

"Very good. Thank you, Foggy. Karen? Come here, please." His voice was still deep, dark, heavy--every word making Foggy twitch with frustrated desire--but it was also, bless him, a little hoarse. Foggy smiled hugely.

"And Foggy, would you please undress and sit at the head of the bed? I'll need you to hold Karen's arms for me in a minute."

Well, shit. Foggy groaned, and moved to do as he was told. He was sure he could make it longer than it took to get out of his pants and into the bed without begging. Maybe. _Damn it, Matt._

*

Karen, already primed to an unbearable pitch by a week of scheming, surprisingly awesome exhibitionism, and anticipation, responded instantly to the heat of Matt's breath across her wrist, the momentary drag of his lips against her palm, with a hot blush across her cheeks, a throbbing ache at her core, and a helpless, hopelessly reckless smile. But the giddiness she felt--if not the arousal--were subsumed the next moment by a strange unmoored feeling washing over her, unlike anything she had ever experienced before, when Matt looked not just at her but  _into_ her. She didn't understand the "world on fire" thing, not really (couldn't imagine it in her mind at all), but she understood gravity; Matt's eyes were earnest and commanding--equal parts day-Matt and night-Matt--and the weight of his voice took her down into a well of feeling where thought just _stopped_. She struggled a little at first (habitually self-reliant even in this unknown territory), trying to undo her dress herself, but she felt like she was moving underwater and it was so much easier to let Foggy help her while Matt's steady, knowing, loving, wanting gaze burned her from the inside out with its unwavering intensity.

Karen floated on a sea of sensation all through the process of being undressed by familiar, beloved hands ( _safe, safe, we are safe with him, with them,_ a voice in her mind crooned when unease began to bubble up in her throat, constricting her breath and making her knees weak); she simply leaned back against Foggy, letting the almond shampoo and stale coffee smell of him and his confident--even proprietary--touch calm her, and let everything else go. It was not her natural state of being, this pliant, trusting passivity, but her whole body felt so sweetly heavy, her mind so blessedly quiet, that she didn't care, and didn't want to.

Time passed strangely; she blinked and abruptly found herself in the same place she had started: less than a foot away from Matt, Foggy behind and around her, waiting. Her eyes widened when she noticed that Matt was no longer looking directly at her face, and that he was breathing harder than usual. She was flattered and oddly discomposed; Matt  _always_ had it together, even when she and Foggy had made it their mission to make him lose it. He had lasted days! Her pleasure in seeing his unmoderated reaction quickened her heartbeat, as did his next words--another instruction to Foggy--but the strange and lovely languor remained. Matt's arms reached out to her, and she stepped forward into them, expecting to be drawn into his lap, but he stopped her by closing his crazy-strong hands over her hips gently, but very firmly. "Off," Matt said, thumbing at the sides of her lacy blue panties, tracing the pattern of smooth and rough with feather-light touches. Then he amended, with a smirk, "Please." How was it that  _he_ kept saying please (and it was still definitely more than a suggestion), whereas  _she_ had been careful to say nothing at all--lest all the ignominious begging she wanted to put off as long as possible start right this minute--yet even her breathing sounded pleading in her own ears? Before she fully processed this petulant complaint, she had pushed the flimsy garment down and kicked it away, standing bare before him, every nerve alight. He breathed a sigh of something that might have been satisfaction and finally pulled her into his lap.

His arms were around her, holding her close to him, just resting; cradling her head in the crook of his shoulder and petting her hair, he said after a long while, "Thank you." His voice was rougher even than it had been a few minutes earlier; she pulled back, wondering if he was alright, if it was too much or too strange for her to be naked in his ( _fully clothed, damn, gotta fix that_ ) embrace, and saw that he was smiling, his wide, mobile mouth turned up not just at one side in the understated smile she was so used to seeing, nor in the fixed, courteous, and utterly fake mask he used so often in public, but in a completely real and truly happy grin. It absolutely transformed his face, making him look younger, lighter of care, and more than a bit silly. She smiled back, mirroring his happiness, and then they both fell against each other in a fit of giggles like children. Or drunk people.

She heard a fondly exasperated huff behind her and off to one side, and turned in Matt's grasp to look at Foggy, who was rolling his eyes whilst blowing his hair out of his face as he folded his pants over the top of a battered steamer-style trunk. He had stripped (as ordered) to his boxers--the pair with the pineapples, her favorite--and was... not looking at either of them. Or coming closer. He was very deliberately dithering before shedding that last article of clothing, and his shoulders were beginning to curl forward like he was trying to make himself small. The awkward moment stretched until he finally cut the tension by mumbling at the floor,

"C'mon, man, stop staring. It's not like you've never..." a vague flap of his hand up and down encompassed his body, " _seen_ this hot bod naked before. And you are neglecting our gorgeous girl! What's the hold-up?" Foggy laughed, but it was a strained and uncomfortable sound, and his face was blotched with a miserable blush. His smile was sickly and false. What the fuck?

A complicated and mostly indecipherable (to her) series of expressions crossed Matt's now rather somber face, and then he said in that truthbomb tone that always made her want to hide her face in her hands,

"Actually... I tried pretty hard not to look at you. It would have been an invasion of your, uh, reasonable expectation of privacy," he gestured at his face, "And truthfully, I didn't want to torture myself like that."

Foggy gaped.

Matt sighed.

(Karen tried not to collapse into another fit of giggles watching these two hash out their painfully obvious mutual crushing from seven years ago NOW, when they were _already naked_ \--well, Foggy and she were; they needed to redress that blatantly unfair imbalance, just as soon as they got past this little hiccup. Really. _Men!_ \--and in the bedroom with intent to fornicate.)

"I wanted you, but you showed no--" Matt said, just as Foggy yelled,

"O my God, you bastard, _how long_?"

Matt reared back, but answered immediately, "Since the beginning. Since the very first day. You treated me just like anyone else, and you were so honest and affectionate. And you smelled so good. How could I not want you? I love you, Foggy, I always have, and just, would you  _please_ take those off and come here."

Foggy sighed, shook his head in incredulous wonder, ditched the boxers, and joined them on the bed. Wordlessly he wrapped his arms around Matt, luxuriating in the right to touch, and Karen got to work on Matt's shirt, because she was ready to get to the orgasms part of the evening (dire threats of making them beg or not).

She loved them both with all of her heart, a bubble of joy filling her chest like the tight feeling of trying to swallow down laughter, and she wanted to share that love with both of them as long as it lasted, as long as they could make it last. That's what this whole crazy gamble had been for: to share this affection, this _joy_ , and the heady freedom to act on it. Matt and Foggy had both waited so long, and she was so glad (even if it was stupid that they had), because she got to be a part of it, whatever it turned out to be like.

But seriously. Orgasms. _N_ _ow_.


End file.
